Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 63565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 318(@200wpm)___ 254(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Nothing screams diabetes like a cold, clammy sweat and no response.
You see, I mastered the art of no response as a child. I have it to the point where someone could drive a knife into my leg and I wouldn’t flinch. Pain is something I have taught my mind to handle, and one thing I know for certain is I can put on a show that is so believable it is outstanding. I should have done it sooner, of course, but it really is a last resort. It takes a great deal of effort and risk that he could in fact pull his gun out and shoot me to see if I’m lying.
A big risk, because if he were to figure it out and then leave me here, I’m all out of options.
So, I like to try everything else first.
Now, I’m out of ideas and this is all I have left. The last resort.
It’s a risk, of course. One, because I’ve had to wet my bed to make sure it looks like I’ve been sweating in it for at least a day, so I’m running the risk of him leaving me here and freezing to death because it’ll never dry. Two, he may actually hurt me to prove I’m lying, and if I so much as flinch, then I’m going to be left here with an injury and no way to treat it. However, if it works, he’s going to take me out of this container and, when he does, I’ll be out of here the moment we make it back into town.
I’ve mostly figured out that he comes out every two days, and if I have timed it right, then he is due to show up this afternoon. For that reason, I’ve been working on my appearance all day. It hasn’t been hard to make myself look like shit, considering I’ve barely had any food and my water supply is low. He returned from the truck after my little escape attempt and put a few things just inside the door – enough to get me through.
About an hour before I expect him to arrive, I begin the process of making myself utterly exhausted looking. I jog on the spot until my skin is clammy, my hair is damp and my face is blotchy and red. I mess my hair up as much as I can, I allow my clothes to become soaked with sweat, and that is no easy feat. It’s freezing out, and it takes so long of intense jogging to get the sweat to build up in my body. It’s worth the risk, though, because I need it to look like I am not okay.
My timing is impeccable – the sound of his truck rumbles outside in the late afternoon, as predicted.
I crawl into my mattress fort, dripping with sweat, my skin cold and clammy, my body looking like an absolute mess. Then, I close my eyes and begin my performance. I will lie here, unresponsive, until he believes me. And he will believe me, because I’m damned good at this. A small lesson my mother taught me when I was growing up with her – such a tender, loving mother she was.
The container door swings open, and it takes so long for him to enter. No doubt he’s waiting for me to leap out. Creaking sounds out as he walks through, and I can hear him moving things around to make sure I’m not hiding anywhere. Only when he’s satisfied does he come toward the mattress fort. His movements are slow, and I’m certain he is expecting me to leap out with another homemade weapon.
“Whatever the fuck you’ve got in there, you better put it down.”
I don’t move. Not even an inch.
It takes a minute or two, but slowly the cool air trickles in and I know he has moved the mattress. There, he will see me lying on a damp bed – thanks to the water I put on it earlier – with soaked clothes and pale but blotchy skin. I know how bad it’ll look, but that’s the point. I don’t move a muscle, and I know he’s staring down at me. My breathing is labored, partially from the exercise I did to get sweaty and partially because of my brilliant acting skills.
“Nice try, but your little act won’t work around here. Get up.”
He nudges me with his boot.
I don’t move.
“Fine,” he grunts. “You want to play, let’s play. Nobody can sit through bein’ pinched.”
A shuffling sound tells me he’s either kneeling or squatting. He reaches out and slides his hand up my shirt and to my breast. Going for the big guns, that’s fine, I like it rough. He takes some of the soft flesh on my breast between his fingertips and he pinches. I don’t so much as flinch. He does it again, but I give him nothing. Not a single movement.